The general took his pipe from his mouth, set it in an ashtray, then leaned forward and folded his hands on top of his desk. "That," he said slowly, "is the most fantastic story I think I've ever heard."
"It's not a story," Harrison said desperately. God,, he couldn't afford to be turned away now! "It's a scientific theory, supported by a body of fact, presented in a logical and reasonable fashion. I'm a respected astrophysicist"—he shook his head—"not some kook spouting stories about UFOs."
"I didn't mean to suggest otherwise, Doctor." Wilson paused to choose his words carefully. "The fact that you were brought here by my niece gives you more credibility than you realize."
"Niece?" Harrison did a double take, frowning first at Wilson and then at Suzanne. "I thought you said he was a friend of your father's." Why the hell hadn't she said anything? Here he was, thinking that she and Wilson were . . . well, anything but familial in their relationship. And he would have worried far less about their chances of getting help from the general if he'd known the guy was Suzanne's uncle.
Suzanne smiled sweetly at Wilson. "Uncle Hank is my father's favorite brother."
Wilson beamed back. "And you're my favorite niece."
Old home week. Encouraged, Harrison began to smile himself. "So you're willing to help us, General?"
The warm smile vanished; Wilson was all military again. "Unfortunately, Doctor, I'll need some hard evidence before I can act on your theory." He reached into the In box on one corner of his desk, fished out a thick manuscript, and started flipping through it. "Just this morning, as a matter of fact, I received a report on the incident you make reference to"—he broke off to scan a page—"which suggests the work of a terrorist group. Ah, here it is." He touched a thick stubby finger to the paper and squinted at it. "Can't read this damn small print without my glasses. The People's Liberation Party."
Harrison felt himself sink from triumph down into despair. He sat forward on the edge of his chair. "General, I've already given you evidence. And I'm trying to warn you about something a lot more dangerous than terrorists. Terrorists didn't leave with those barrels—the six revived aliens did."
"Just because those barrels were empty doesn't mean the aliens walked out, Doctor," the general replied patiently. "What real proof do you have that the aliens are alive? It's far more likely that the terrorists stole them."
"What possible use would terrorists have for them?" Harrison asked him angrily.
"To instigate panic, for one thing."
"And what about the transmission, general? How are you going to explain that away?"
"Try to look at it from my point of view, Dr. Blackwood—"
"No, look at it from mine!" Before he knew it, Harrison was on his feet bent over the desk, shoving his face into Wilson's. He was vaguely aware that he was shouting and that Suzanne was going through paroxysms of embarrassment, but he didn't care. In the back of his mind, a phrase kept repeating: Clayton was wrong. I should never have wasted my time coming to Washington. Goddamn military, they'll kill us all through their stupidity. Goddamn military, they'll kill us all. . .
"Please take your seat, Doctor," Wilson was repeating calmly, but Harrison ignored him.
"These creatures are completely ruthless, General, without mercy! They see us as something less than animals, an inconvenience to be done away with. Thirty-five years ago, they tried to take over the world, killed millions of people—and no one wants to remember! Well, I can't forget. They killed my parents —and, General, this time they won't stop until we're all dead. You, me, Suzanne . . ."
Wilson blinked at him and picked up his pipe again. "I'm sorry, Doctor." His tone was gentle.
Harrison stopped, slightly dazed by his own outburst, but unrepentant. Still leaning over the desk, he glared at Wilson. For a moment no one spoke.
"Bring me something concrete," Wilson said finally. "I'll see that it gets to the proper people. You have my word."
"There isn't time," Harrison told him bitterly. Concrete? Jesus, what more did the man want? Feeling defeated and furious, he wheeled around and strode out of the office, afraid if he stayed a second longer he'd say something to the general that even his niece would be unable to smooth over.
Yet, as furious as he was, his mind was already racing to find a solution to Wilson's challenge. The son of a bitch wants hard evidence, huh? Then by God, I'll find a way to give him that if it's the last—and it probably will be—thing I do. He didn't break his rapid stride until he was back out in the waiting area. It was devoid of people, save for a lone receptionist who was busily fielding incoming phone calls.
Harrison tore off the tie-—good riddance—tossed the briefcase on a chair, opened it, and pulled out the portable phone. He dialed the Institute number, then checked his watch as he remembered the three-hour time difference. It was eleven-thirty here in D.C., which meant there was about a fifty-fifty chance that Norton would be there this time of the morning. Probably just setting the coffee up now.
The Institute switchboard operator answered.
"Extension 5900," Harrison said. Behind him came the sound of heels clicking against the uncarpeted floor at top speed . . . Suzanne. She walked up beside him, her scowl fiercely disapproving, her posture rigid, tight, angry.
"If you expect people to help you," she began in a low voice that rose in volume, "you'd better learn to be a hell of a lot more gracious. You were impossibly rude to my uncle back there."
"The world doesn't have time for graciousness," he snapped, so vehemently that she recoiled slightly. "The general wants concrete proof, does he? I suppose that means depositing a live alien on his desk! Well, by God, I'll get him one if that's what it takes! But we're giving them time, Suzanne, time they can use against us—we're giving them too much time!"
"Harrison!" Norton's voice came over the receiver. He was shouting in an effort to interrupt. "Harrison, did you call me just so I could listen to you and Suzanne arguing?"
He took a deep breath and forced himself to speak calmly. "Sorry, Norton."
There was a pause, and then Norton said, "Doesn't sound like things are going too well for us."
"They're not." Harrison met Suzanne's worried eyes and shook his head. "The army's decided our proof isn't enough. Looks like we've got some work to do."
Back at his desk, Wilson puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment before reaching out to press the button on his intercom. "Ms. Underwood? See that I'm put on the President's afternoon calendar. Then connect me with Lieutenant Colonel Paul Ironhorse."
SIXTEEN
At eight o'clock the next morning, Suzanne, clutching an oversize mug of coffee she'd stolen from Norton, stumbled bleary-eyed down the corridor toward her office. She and Harrison had returned from the visit with Wilson the night before, and Suzanne hadn't been able to sleep well afterward; her mind had kept rehashing all the possible ways they could provide Uncle Hank with the evidence he'd requested, and as a result she was exhausted again this morning.
She pushed open the door to her office, reached to flick on the light switch—and frowned to find it already on. Odd. Someone must have been in here while she was gone—she never forgot to turn off the lights in her life. She turned and took a step toward her desk—and froze.
There was a strange man sitting in her chair, drinking a cup of coffee.
She headed for the door, her first impulse to call Security, but unfortunately, her phone was on llic desk next to the stranger's right elbow.
He set his cup down on the desk, rose, and smiled disarmingly at her. "I'm sorry if I startled you. You must be Dr. McCuIlough."
Suzanne hesitated in the doorway and studied him suspiciously, not quite able to decide whether to head back down the hall in search of the guard. The visitor certainly didn't seem threatening: he was a lean, silver-haired gentleman who looked to be in his late sixties, clean shaven, affable, with an easy charm and rather handsome features. He was casually dressed in a blue cotton shirt and a pair of khakis.
<
br /> "Yes, I'm Dr. McCuIlough . . ." she answered cautiously. "Just whom were you looking for?"
"No one in particular." The stranger picked up his coffee and came around the desk toward her; instead of feeling threatened, she got the odd impression that there was something very familiar about him. "I used to work here. This was my office before I retired, and, I have to admit, I was indulging in a bit of nostalgia. My apologies. Usually, the place is deserted until eight-thirty, nine o'clock." He paused. "You must be a very dedicated worker, Dr. McCuIlough."
She frowned, curious. "Do I know you?"
"I don't think so." He extended a hand. "Clayton Forrester."
"Dr. Forrester—" she repeated, surprised. No wonder he seemed familiar; Harrison had a picture of a much younger Forrester on his desk. She barely managed to stop herself from saying, But I thought you were dead . . . though, come to think of it, Harrison never had actually come right out and said as much. She took his hand; his grip wasn't very strong, and when she looked at him closely, he did seem rather pale. "I'm very honored to meet you, sir, but Harrison never mentioned that you would be coming."
"Harrison didn't know." Forrester gestured her toward her chair. "Please, sit. You don't mind if I rest a moment?" He sounded a little breathless.
"Not at all." She took her seat behind the desk and eyed him with concern, but Forrester already seemed recovered and was casually sipping his coffee. "Was this really your office, Dr. Forrester?"
He waved a hand at her. "Please . . . call me Clayton."
"Clayton," she repeated a little awkwardly. Now she understood where Harrison got the first-name habit from—as well as the khakis. "And my name is Suzanne."
"Yes, I know, Suzanne." He nodded. "Harrison has nothing but good things to say about you."
The corner of her mouth quirked cynically before she had a chance to stop it. "Really?"
He looked up from his cup, his soft brown eyes shining with faint amusement. "You sound surprised. You shouldn't be."
"Well. . . uh, I'm not, really. I have a lot of admiration for Harrison . . . professionally speaking, of course."
"Of course," Forrester agreed, his tone carefully
noncommittal. "Harrison is quite impressed with you. So am I. When I saw your resume, I told Harrison he should hire you immediately." He paused. "Actually, I've come today because I was hoping to hear from Harrison last night, after he got back from Washington . . . and he's not answering his phone. Has a nasty habit of unplugging the damn thing when he's sleeping or doesn't want to talk to anyone. I'm assuming the worst—that you didn't get the help you were hoping for."
The mere mention of it reminded her of how tired and discouraged she felt. She took a large swallow of coffee and stared down into the cup, clutching it tightly as if to draw strength from it. "No," she said flatly. "But we're hopeful. The military wants proof, and we're going to find a way to give them just that."
"I see." Forrester nodded gravely; he stared at her so intently that after several seconds she fidgeted self-consciously in her chair. He noticed, and shook himself out of his reverie. "I'm sorry." He smiled apologetically and stared down into his cup. "It's just that—" He looked up at her. "You know, you remind me very much of someone who was close to me."
She felt herself starting to blush, but at the same time she was genuinely touched. "I do?"
He nodded, smiling wistfully. "Your cousin—your second cousin, I suppose. You're very much like her."
Sylvia, she realized, and tensed at the thought.
Forrester noticed her discomfort and said, "Sylvia was a very brilliant, warm woman. A very brave woman who went through more than anyone should have to." His face darkened for an instant, but it passed quickly, and then he was smiling up at Suzanne again. "You must forgive me, Suzanne. I'm an old man, and old age brings with it a certain amount of freedom—such as the freedom to speak one's mind. I don't have time to beat around the bush anymore."
"Sorry?" she whispered. She couldn't quite follow, and assumed that he was rambling, a little bit senile. The thought embarrassed her even more.
But Forrester seemed quite cognizant of what he was saying. "Let me say what I've come to say. Harrison is an incredibly good, caring man—I know, I raised him. But you must be patient with him. This joking facade of his is just a big cover-up; underneath, he's a very serious young man. Too serious to be wasting his time with the likes of that Phillipson woman." His lip curled slightly at the thought.
"Um," she said, by this time blushing furiously and far too startled to say anything intelligible. Why, he was giving her his blessing to go after Harrison!
"Wasting his time," Forrester repeated, shaking his head. "He has absolutely nothing in common with-—"
Clayton broke off at the sound of someone clearing his throat. Suzanne glanced up to see Harrison, his arms folded, leaning in the doorway, his expression one of utmost disapproval. He was looking only a little less haggard than he had last night, and was dressed in the flannel shirt and khakis again.
"Forgive me for interrupting the heart-to-heart. Clayton—" His tone was one of disapproval, ernbar-rassment, and honest surprise. "What the devil are you doing here?"
Brown eyes wide with innocence, Forrester smiled up at Harrison. "Why, hello, Harrison," he said smoothly, not in the least bit disconcerted by the timing of the interruption. "We were just talking about you."
"So I heard," Harrison answered dryly. "How did you get here?"
"I took a taxi."
Harrison seemed somewhat dazed by this information, but said, "Well, look, Clayton, Dr. McCullough—"
"Suzanne," Clayton corrected him, and took a casual sip of his coffee.
To her surprise, Harrison actually blushed. "Yes, well, Suzanne has a lot of work to do. Come with me and I'll fill you in on what happened."
Clayton stood up and said graciously, "I enjoyed meeting you, Suzanne."
She rose and took his hand. "It was a pleasure, Clayton."
Harrison straightened and stepped inside the room. "You know where my office is, Clayton. Catch up to you in two seconds."
"Right." Forrester turned to give Suzanne a wink, then headed out the door.
Harrison rolled his eyes at her, then closed the door behind him. "Suzanne—I apologize if he embarrassed you. I hope he didn't say anything that—"
"Actually," she interrupted, "I thought he was charming. A little too direct, maybe, but perfectly
lucid." Which was all true. Forrester had seemed very aware of the effect his words had on both Harrison and Suzanne.
Harrison relaxed noticeably, but shook his head as if unable to believe what had just happened.
"Frankly," Suzanne said, and hesitated, then decided to say it anyway. "I thought he had passed away a long time ago, from the way you spoke about it. It was sort of like talking to a ghost."
"I suppose it was," Harrison answered softly, and looked away. "I guess in my own mind I think of the man who raised me as dead. He's been crippled by depression for years; in fact, this is the first time he's been out of the house in weeks . . . and the first time he's been to PITS in years."
"I didn't realize ... he seemed perfectly well to me." Suzanne saw it all suddenly from Harrison's point of view, what it must have been like to lose both parents to the aliens, and then to watch a third slowly destroyed by them over the years. The man wasn't paranoid or eccentric at all. "I'm sorry, Harrison. That must be very difficult for you."
Harrison shrugged. "It's been harder on Clayton. But it's funny . . . it's almost as if—" He paused. "I thought knowing about what's happened with the aliens would be the straw to break the camel's back, but it seems to have the opposite effect."
"I'm glad for that, at least."
Harrison still wouldn't meet her eyes. "So am I. And I'm amazed to find him here." He turned to leave but glanced back at her awkwardly. "Well, again, I'm sorry if he embarrassed you—"
"Speak for yourself," she said lightly.
&nbs
p; He grimaced at that and left.
Harrison caught up with Forrester in the hallway. The anger and embarrassment he felt about what Clayton had said to Suzanne was eclipsed by his joy at seeing his second father up and around and looking interested in his surroundings. Clayton actually seemed—well, not his old self, but certainly better. He'd shaved, combed his hair, and put on clean clothes, and he wasn't shuffling, but walking with something very much like a sense of purpose toward Harrison's office.
"Clayton, I'm really surprised to see you here."
Clayton seemed rather amused by the stir he was creating. "You didn't call," he replied good-naturedly. "I was concerned. I figured the government turned you down." He looked sideways at Harrison. "I came to see if there was anything I could do to help."
Not really, Harrison almost answered, but stopped himself at the last minute. His gaze traveled over the older man. Look at him—he came all this way after all this time. You can't just send him home and tell him he's useless.
As they paused at the door to his office, Harrison reached, out and laid a hand on Forrester's bony shoulder. "Actually, the government didn't exactly turn us down—but they're demanding evidence. I could really use another brain to pick. Let me fill you in on what we're doing . . ."
Clayton's eyes brightened.
SEVENTEEN
Insistent jazzlike percussion was blasting at full volume from the stereo speakers mounted on the ceiling of Norton's office. Harrison stood in the doorway with his hands clapped over his ears and felt his teeth vibrate.
"Norton!" he yelled.
No response. Oblivious to Harrison's presence, Norton was navigating in his chair over to the computer, squinting at a sheaf of papers in his hand.
"Dammit, Norton, turn that down"
Norton glanced up just as the chair lowered him in front of his computer console. "Oh, hi, Harrison. Volume down." The noise eased to a tolerable level.
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 17
